Their target, apparently, hadn’t realized they were zeroing in on him until they were just a few feet away. Sam walked up, clapped him on the back. “Wow. Didn’t expect to see you here. Did you, Remi?”
“Not in the least. The people we run into at Pebble Beach, it just amazes me at times.”
The man’s blue eyes widened as he looked from Sam to Remi in disbelief. “It’s you!”
Considering that Sam expected him to deny, to at least pretend, he hadn’t been watching them, his statement came as a surprise. “How do you know us?”
“Of course, I don’t know you,” he said, with a strong British accent. “Not personally. You really do look just like your photographs. What luck to run into you straightaway.”
“Lucky, indeed,” Sam said, wondering what sort of game this guy was playing. “Didn’t quite catch your name.”
“Forgive me. I’m Oliver Payton. But you’ll be wanting to talk to my uncle, Albert. Please wait while I fetch him?”
“Right here,” Sam said.
He and Remi watched the man walk off, Remi saying, “Our missing Viscount’s nephew?”
“Apparently. Assuming the man really is a viscount.”
“Your mother seems to think so.”
“She’s not nearly as jaded as I am. Besides, how is it I’ve never heard about him until now?”
Remi gave him a sidelong glance. “Lack of interest in your extended family tree?”
“Only because the branches seem to multiply every time we turn around.”
“Do I detect the slightest bit of cynicism? Don’t answer that.” She nodded to Sam’s left, where Oliver was helping a white-haired man down the slope of rough grass onto a cart path. “Our Viscount and his nephew are back.”
When they reached the champagne tent, the Viscount brushed Oliver’s hand from his arm. “I’m old, not an invalid.”
Oliver gave a hesitant smile, clearing his throat. “My uncle, Albert Payton, Viscount Wellswick. This is Sam Fargo and his wife, Remi. They’re here about the car.”
The old man grumbled something under his breath about the car being his, turning an accusing glare in Sam’s direction. Suddenly his expression softened. “You look just like Eunice.”
The last person Sam had ever heard calling his mother by that name was a clerk at the DMV when she’d let her driver’s license expire. She’d always hated the name, instead going by Libby, a diminutive of Elizabeth, her middle name. “She mentioned you were here about a car?”
Albert nodded. “I— Yes. That you might be interested in the prototype of the Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. I— I don’t have a lot of money. I’m not sure the show’s the best place for it. But I have a few good ideas on where someone might hide a classic car. I know they’re far-fetched, but if you’d only hear me out . . .”
Sam and Remi exchanged glances. No doubt a swindle about to happen, and not a very good one. When it came to cons, Sam liked to let them think they had the upper hand—the better to keep them off guard. “You have a card? I’ll look into the matter and get back to you.”
&
nbsp; The man’s face fell as he patted his pockets. Either he was an extremely good actor or he’d pinned a lot of hope on that odd speech he’d just given. “No.”
“I have a mobile,” Oliver said. “Will that do?”
“Of course. Remi?”
She handed Sam her flute, then took her cell phone out, entering the number that Oliver recited to her.
“We’ll be in touch,” Sam said, placing both glasses on a nearby table.
He and Remi walked off, Remi asking, “What do you suppose his game was?”
“I’m not sure that he even knows.” Sam checked the program Remi still held, something about it spurring his memory. “Didn’t we read a recent article in Sports Car Market about a viscount selling off a number of classic cars?”
“The same man: Albert Payton,” Remi said. While Sam’s memory was sharp, his wife had near-photographic memory for anything she read. It amazed him how she was able to recall the tiniest details. “Downsizing in an attempt to save the family estate. But I don’t recall reading that they were selling a prototype Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. You don’t think he was talking about the one that was stolen back in 1906? Of the first ever forty-fifty?”